Don’t squint or take a second glance or so much as acknowledge I’ve noticed.
I do pick up my champagne and Brian’s, and I do step into the shadows of the pergola, calling to him. “Darling, I’m sorry, something out here is flaring up my allergies. Do you mind if we move inside?”
I don’thaveallergies, but Brian’s gentlemanly ways are triggered. He bids his friends farewell, grabs my purse, and signals to the waiter.
It’s only once we’re inside, seated safely behind a wall, that I press a kiss to Brian’s lips. “I’ll be right back. I need to freshen up. Would you mind ordering for me? I’m starved. I’ll have the salad again.”
He happily agrees, and I stride off, assured he has a reason to stay at our table—he must put our order in. After all, his wife is hungry on our anniversary.
Once I’m out of his sight, I yank my gun from my purse, hide it beneath the shawl I’ve draped over my shoulders. I slip down the hall toward the back entrance to find the sniper I have no doubt was ready to kill Brian.
That motherfucker can get in line.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
An exit sign glows redabove a heavy-duty door down the hallway where the restrooms are. I push through it to find myself in an alleyway just out of view of where the shooter must be, where their scope flashed against the setting sun. A dumpster’s stench assaults my nostrils, at odds with the tingle of champagne still on my tongue. I make my way quickly but cautiously toward the main road. Brian’s BMW sits parallel parked across the street. No shots ring out as I peer around the restaurant. The flicker I saw is now gone. Probably, whoever’s there lies in wait.
They’ll sit, motionless, until Brian or I emerge from the restaurant. And that’s when they’ll take their shot. The area is wide-open, with light coming from behind the would-be killer, so no matter the hour, they won’t be blinded.
I consider texting JohnWhat the actual fuck? Did you put another hitter on the Big Job?but decide it wouldn’t be like him—jobs are generally given to one assassin at a time. Though it is possible. He did say his boss was putting pressure on him. Or maybe Brian is so bad that multiple agencies were contracted. Maybe someoneheard how much they are willing to pay and decided to take a shot, to try to collect, maybe—
I exhale, clutch my gun in both hands. At this range, it’s useless. Despite what Hollywood would have you think, handguns are most accurate at short distances, ideally thirty feet or less. Add on a moving target, and it’s even less.
I glance around the edge of the building again. A car whizzes by. A mother holds the hand of a preschooler across the way. With no one else in sight, I speed walk across the street in the direction of the sniper, gun again hidden by my shawl. At the end of the alley is another dumpster, and above that, a fire escape.
Glad Brian chose flats instead of heels, I yank my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, wrinkle my nose, and carefully step up onto the edge of the trash receptacle. Black and white plastic bags, rotting food, a random shoe—disgusting. When I turn back to the fire escape, I inspect a combination of steel stairs and terraces and a ladder. A drainage pipe runs to one side of it, and I reach for that, balancing myself as I get a foot on the second-floor landing. And then I’m good to go. I hurry up one set of stairs, then another, keeping my footsteps light so the steel doesn’t shake or clatter against the building.
Halfway up—it’s five or six floors—my phone chirps.
“Dang it.” I need a whole new setting on the damn thing. NotBedtimeand notDo Not Disturb, but maybeBusy Killing Someone, Text Me Later. This fabulous mode would automatically turn on when my heart rate climbed, when my phone sensed me sprinting.
I pause long enough to take a quick glance at it—it’s John, of all people, like he can tell I’m busy on an unsanctioned kill. Or maybe he felt like someone was walking over his grave when I considered messaging him a second ago.
John:Update, please?! Boss is breathing down my neck.
“Oh, fuck off.” I tuck the phone back, climb to the top floor.
The fire escape stops one floor short of the roof, and I’ve got another fifteen feet I’ll need to somehow scale. The building—an ugly matte gray thing only corporate America would build—is flat, with nothing to grab on to, no hand- or footholds. Entirely unhelpful. A glance in the closest window tells me it’s someone’s top floor apartment. A pug stares back at me, tongue hanging out of his mouth. I whisper, “Good boy,” and he—or she?—cocks his head at me.
Pressing my fingertips to the glass, I try to slide the window open, but it’s either locked or painted shut. The pug wiggles, like he’s pleased as can be someone’s trying to get closer to him, even if it’s a killer breaking into his owner’s home.
I creep to the next window, which gives, easily sliding up. It leaves me in the unenviable position of having to climb past an assortment of spiky cacti on the windowsill and directly into a kitchen sink overflowing with ceramic plates and steak knives.
“It’s like breaking into Kevin McCallister’s house,” I mutter. The pug snorts—either appreciating myHome Alonejoke or smugly reminding me that he is far too young to understand my millennial humor.
I clench my teeth and squat low, trying to slide my body in without letting my hoo-ha touch an unidentifiable smear of something that I hope is chocolate. Remind me to never wear a dress again. I’ve nearly made it when the pug leaps in the air, yapping at me, nearly reaching the height of the counter. I yank back. A sharp sting on my right butt cheek tells me I’ve failed to avoid the cacti.
“Move,” I hiss at the little dog, placing my hand in the only square of counter space not covered in dishes.
He stumbles back a step, sits, tilts his head at me again.
Stepping onto the rim of the sink—aah, air-conditioning—my skirt rides up as I try to climb down without toppling, and suddenly the pug gets a full view of my ass.
You don’t know this about me, but I despise panty lines, as well as thongs, and therefore go commando anytime I’m wearing something sheer—like tonight. In other words, my undies are in the back of Brian’s BMW…but I’m starting to think I should reconsider this policy in the very near future.
I yank down the hem of the dress, give the dog two pats on the head, and also remind him (definitely a him) it’s polite to look away, then pull the window shut and hurry toward the front door, one hand clutching my ass where a cactus spine is still sunk into my flesh.
I’ve no sooner gotten out of the apartment and into the hallway when my phone dingsagain.
